She danced down the marble stair, tiptoed through the dim salon, unlatched the glassed doors, and stepped onto the wide terrace that led down to the formal garden.
Dew still whitened the neat squares of grass and trembled on the stiff new leaves of the rosebushes. She hadn't thought of the dew when she chose the heavy walking shoes--they had merely been the first pair to hand--but she was glad of them. Her jean half-boots would have been soaked before she reached the garden. She did not see Johnny.
As she approached the still fountain, however, she found him sitting on the stone bench by the high wall, facing the sun. Perhaps she made a noise. He looked round and rose.
Maggie ran to him. "Oh, Johnny, I missed you!"
He took her hand, smiling. "Did you?"
"And I loved the sonnet. It was beautiful and...and very flattering."
He raised her hand to his lips. "Not flattering. Truthful."
She knew she was blushing, and looked away, unable to think what to say next.
Perhaps Johnny sensed her confusion. "Shall we go for a walk?" he asked, letting her hand fall gently.
"Oh, yes," she said. "Yes, please. A long one."
* * * *
Jean thought the birthday had gone very well. Lying abed that night beside her sister, she turned the day's events over in her mind like the pages of a book of hours. Owen had discovered a gothick book of hours, writ and illuminated by a medieval hand, among the heaps of unpublished manuscripts in the library. He had saved it to show her on her birthday morning, and though the writing was in Latin the pictures were certainly very pretty. He had also writ her an ode comparing her to Jeanne d'Arc. He slipped it to her with a very significant look. The poem moved her more than the illuminated manuscript, though Owen's excitement over the gothick find interested her.
Unfortunately, Clanross had been in the book room with them all morning and the two men soon went off into a discussion of how best to preserve the manuscript. Jean supposed it must be rare.
Whilst the men talked, she slipped Owen's ode between the pages of an unexceptionable novel and read the poem through at her leisure.
She kept the book by her. She had meant to show Maggie the ode and did remember to carry the book to their room, but the excitement of the afternoon and evening pushed it from her mind.
She and Maggie, Tom, and Elizabeth had taken tea with their three young sisters at the Dower House. It was satisfying to read awe in the little girls' wide blue eyes as she and Maggie talked of London shops. They had agreed with Elizabeth that it was better to say nothing of the riot.
Just before Jean and Maggie retired to dress for dinner, Elizabeth took them to her suite to show them their mother's jewels.
The elder Lady Clanross had died when the twins were thirteen. Jean remembered her mother well and did not need Elizabeth's reminiscences to remind her that her mother had been a very high stickler indeed. Elizabeth spoke in terms of her own gratitude and affection, but Jean read the underlying criticism. Their mother would not have approved the Greek Street adventure.
That sounded a sour note for Jean, though Maggie seemed not to notice. As she and her twin pored over the trays of costly baubles, however, Jean's delight overtook her resentment. She chose a diamond hair-clip and Maggie a strand of baroque pearls, and both girls were given diamond earbobs. None of the jewelry was pinchbeck. It was the real thing, and Elizabeth gave them handsome leather cases to keep their selections in when they travelled. They wore the earbobs to dinner.
After dinner, whilst the carpet was rolled and Miss Bluestone warmed up at the pianoforte, Clanross took them to his study and presented his gifts. He had caused Rundle and Bridge to create brooches for them, each to an individual design, each quite beautiful. Maggie's centered on a perfect black pearl and Jean's on a cluster of fire opals. Both girls were struck dumb, at least for the moment, and Jean half remembered the sensations she had felt when she fancied herself in love with her tall brother-in-law. He was a very kind man. When her tongue unlocked she contrived to thank him. Maggie gave him a kiss.
Fortunately, Maggie seemed to have pulled out of the dismals. She had even gone for a walk before breakfast. She laughed and joked over a game of Fish with the little girls in the afternoon, and partnered Johnny and Owen and Willoughby at the dancing after dinner, quite as if nothing were wrong.
Jean's conscience still pricked her when she remembered Maggie's tears, but she was glad Maggie hadn't got the headache on their birthday.
16
Emily set Lady Clanross's letter aside and watched as her husband concluded Tommy's reading lesson.
Richard sat opposite the little boy at the battered schoolroom table that had served Emily and her brothers. When Tommy stumbled, he looked up at his father's mouth and Richard said the troublesome word in a low, unemphatic voice. Tommy gave a quick nod, like a robin dipping for water, repeated the word with approximately the right intonation, and went on with the story. The same process happened five times with no diminution of Richard's patience. He even contrived to look interested.
Tommy had had a holiday from reading whilst his father was in London. Though Emily felt mild guilt for neglecting the chore in the confusion of the move, she thought Tommy had needed a break from his routine. She was relieved to know that the little boy had not forgot his lessons entirely. He was also speaking more often and more easily than he had been, though he was still hard to follow when he spoke fast.
Tommy made his way to the moral of the tale--Mrs. More's tales always ended in an improving message. Emily had long ago decided she did not like Hannah More and would cross the street to avoid meeting that worthy philanthropist, but simple stories for children were rare as hen's teeth, so Tommy, perforce, read Mrs. More's tales. Emily watched as her stepson was kissed and scampered off in search of the other children.
Richard extricated himself from the low table and stretched, yawning.
"You ought to write stories for children--like the ones you writ for Amy when you were in the Peninsula. Your stories would not make one feel faintly ill."
He cocked an eyebrow. "I think you disapprove of moral allegory. What should I title my efforts, Unimproving Tales?"
"The Phantastical Adventures of Thomas Falk, of course." Emily brooded. "You could call yourself Charity Goodenough."
Richard laughed. "Or Robin Goodfellow. Have you had another letter from your sister-in-law?"
"From Lady Clanross. She has sent me an invitation to Brecon. I discern Tom's devious Italian hand." She handed him the sheet of fine, hot-pressed paper. It smelt faintly of otto of roses. Emily favoured lavender herself.
Richard scanned the letter. "Handsomely put. Shall you go?"
"I want to know what you did to earn her ladyship's undying gratitude."
"Eh? Oh, the girls."
"What did you rescue them from, pirates?"
He explained the episode of the riot in comic detail. "Good heavens," Emily murmured, fascinated and a trifle shocked. "They must be mettlesome young women."
"Spirited, certainly."
"Why did you not tell me before?"
"It wasn't my secret to share. Besides," he confessed, "it slipped my mind."
"Hmmm. And Johnny is in love with Lady Margaret."
"It would seem so."
"I can imagine Johnny in love with a demure miss with dimples, but a hoyden..." She shook her head. She liked Johnny, but he was a very proper young man. That was what came of growing up in the close of a cathedral.
"I fancy the hoyden is Lady Jean," Richard said. "In any case, Cupid definitely hit the mark. Johnny spoke of marriage."
"But Lady Margaret is not yet eighteen!"
"Younger than she are happy mothers made," Richard said wryly, "though I think the twins have turned eighteen. Johnny hared off to Brecon for the birthday fete. Lady Clanross will present the girls at the June levee."
Emily rose from her chair and began to tidy the books on the schoolroom table. "Have you decided what yo
u mean to do about McGrath?"
When Richard had returned from London the previous week he had taken McGrath off for a long walk, through the Hampshire countryside. McGrath had since conducted himself soberly in Sir Henry's kitchen.
"I shall send him to Ireland."
Emily took a moment to digest that. "Oh, no! Peggy--"
Richard sighed. "Pegeen is McGrath's wife. If she chooses to go with him we can't stop her."
"It's not fair!"
He was still standing by her chair with Lady Clanross's letter in his hand. He took a step toward her. "Do you suppose these past years have been fair to McGrath?"
"I have made every allowance for his lapses," Emily said indignantly.
"Jerry is not used to being tied to a house. He spent fifteen years on campaign, thirteen of them in my service. He was always a man I could rely on."
"I know that..."
"Then you know I cannot repay him by penning him belowstairs as a sort of drunken house-dog."
Emily bit her lip.
"He's not suited to domestic service."
"God knows," she shot back, defiant.
"Jerry knows it, too. Why do you fancy he's been numbing his brain with gin?" Richard drew a breath. "When I hadn't the means to set him up in a trade that suited him, I had to stand by and watch him destroying himself. Now I can act. He wants to deal in horses and I think he can succeed at that. I mean to send him to Cork with a letter of credit on a bank there."
"He'll drink himself into the gutter in a week."
"I think not, but if he does at least he'll know he had the choice."
"And what of Peggy and the children. Don't they count?"
He softened. "I know it's hard. Pegeen needn't go at once. Jerry means her to stay here until he has established himself, but she will go sooner or later. He's her man..."
"And she'll see it as her duty. Very well, but it's not fair and I don't like it."
His eyes were dark. "I don't like it either and perhaps Peggy won't, but Jerry must have his chance."
Emily stalked off to nurse Sally. She found Peggy McGrath at her usual station and asked the woman bluntly if she knew of McGrath's intent. Though Peggy exclaimed and repined and shed a number of loquacious Irish tears, it was clear that she had known of the horrible plan for days and that she meant to follow her husband home to her native turf.
Emily had learnt to value Peggy McGrath in the years since the woman had first come to her with Amy and Tommy. She had thought Peggy returned her regard. She knew the nurse was attached to the children.
"How can you bear to leave them?"
"Sure, and it's a hard thing," Peggy mourned.
Sally nuzzled Emily's breast like a piglet and made quite a rude noise. "But the children--"
"Ah, the poor darlings."
"Peggy," Emily cried, "how can you? You don't have to go."
Peggy's eyes widened in honest shock. "If I didn't, McGrath'd kill me for sure, the ould divil. Besides, he's me husband, missus."
It was no use.
In her agitation over the McGraths, Emily half-forgot Lady Clanross's letter. Richard reminded her of it that evening when they had escaped from the withdrawing room and her father.
"Do you want to visit Brecon?"
"I don't know. Do you?" Emily had ripped off her earbobs and was unpinning her hair.
"I must go, at least for a short stay. Tom wants me to look at some letters with an eye to editing them."
"Leaving me behind." Emily was still feeling surly.
"It's as you choose, Emily." He hesitated. "If you'd rather not go, I can take the three oldest with me."
Emily turned and stared at him.
He had removed his neckcloth and coat and sat on the bed in shirtsleeves. "Lady Clanross has a sister Amy's age, and I mean to continue working with Tommy."
"What of Matt?"
"There are bound to be horses. Tom says the lake is stocked." He undid the buttons of his shirt and pulled it over his head, muttering muffled words.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I said, it's time Matt saw a bit of the world."
The words worked in Emily's brain.
"Besides," he added, "I'd be in his black books forever if I left him behind."
"That's true."
He yanked the nightshirt over his head.
"I suppose you are trying, in your underhand way, to suggest that I, too, ought to see more of the world than my own corner of Hampshire."
"'Thus we with windlasses and with assays of bias, by indirections find directions out,'" Richard quoted. He was quoting a great deal lately. Emily wondered why.
"I like Hampshire."
"It has its charms."
Emily's suspicion eased and she began to laugh. "Oh, very well, Richard. At least I shall escape Papa at his harvesttime worst. Must I read up on the moons of Jupiter before I meet Lady Clanross?"
"I found her conversable in plain English," Richard said seriously.
* * * *
The, rapport Johnny had reestablished with Maggie was a tender plant. He meant to cultivate it. He had not made her an offer of marriage. He thought that might frighten her. Colonel Falk notwithstanding, he wasn't sure he ought to be so bold so soon.
He was now in no doubt of his own feelings. He wanted to marry the ninth Earl of Clanross's fifth daughter. That was that. Every hour spent in her company deepened his conviction.
Though her headaches had miraculously vanished, Maggie was still shaken by her ordeal. She had not Jean's resiliency. Johnny found the cropped hair especially touching--perhaps because he associated it with illness. The short curls gave Maggie an elfin air he found irresistible. She looked so delicate a strong gust of wind might pick her up and blow her over the beeches into another country, faeryland perhaps.
He knew he was being fanciful. His imagination was alive with phantasies. He dreamt often and in brilliant colour, and more than once found his attention wandering from a letter he ought to be copying to daylight visions of Maggie in a rose-covered cottage with prattling infants at her knee.
Those visions led him to sober reflection on the future. He had a modest income from the Consols his godmother had left him and Clanross paid him a handsome wage. When he married, his father had promised to settle five hundred pounds a year on him--if his father were not so offended as to cut him off with a shilling. He had not heard from his father.
He would have to find another source of income. He liked politicks but it might be years before a seat fell vacant. In any case, members were not paid. Whilst he waited for opportunity to knock, he must gain practical experience of the art and persuade Clanross that his interest was not a passing fancy. He thought of Owen's odes and Colonel Falk's history and wondered if he might not take up writing, too--political writing.
It was a difficult time to be a writer on political subjects, but Johnny thought closely reasoned, moderately expressed opinion must find a publisher. Probably the editors would be grateful to read a piece of prose that did not indulge in satirical exaggeration. Such extravagance was foreign to Johnny's temper.
In the weeks before the Brecon party were set to return to London for the levee, Johnny began to work on a temperate, well-reasoned plea for reform of Parliament. He would send it to the Quarterly Review. A friend from his Oxford days was the son of one of the editors.
His efforts at composition did not detract from his careful courtship. Maggie was delighted to listen to him, eager to read what he had writ. And explaining himself to Maggie helped him clarify his ideas. He was happy to instruct her when her comprehension faltered, but she understood a great deal. She came of a political family, after all. Her father had been a prominent Whig.
* * * *
"Johnny and Maggie are smelling of April and May," Elizabeth said.
"Is that bad?" Tom laid the letter he had been reading aside.
"I don't know. I hope they haven't come to a secret understanding. No, Johnny wouldn't be so lost to propr
iety." Elizabeth paced the carpet of their private drawing room. "At least Jean is biddable these days."
"Now that I do find suspicious."
"Oh, dear..." Elizabeth caught the twinkle in his eyes and plumped onto the sofa beside him. "Am I fuss-budgeting?"
"I think you're making yourself more anxious than you need to."
"Perhaps," Elizabeth said darkly. "Perhaps not. I wish Owen in Timbuktu."
"I can send him to the Lothian house. Those books need to be catalogued, too."
"That's true, but he's making progress here."
"He's a good scholar with a genuine love of books," Tom said gently. "And his poetry has some merit."
"Hang his poetry. If you must be a patron of the arts," she grumbled, "take up painters. Or musicians. I know a worthy violinist."
"Bald and sixty?"
"Fat and forty with a wife and seven hopeful children."
"I'll leave the musicians to you. The truth is," he added ruefully, "I feel I should follow your father's example but I haven't his education. That exhibit we saw last autumn..."
"The historical painters?"
He nodded. "I remember one battle scene. Wolfe on the Heights of Abraham, I think it was. I stared at it and kept telling myself it was great art, but all the while I was seeing little puffballs of smoke issuing from misplaced cannons and thinking that the company in the middle distance would be chewed up in the first barrage."
Elizabeth laughed. "But you admired that sea battle of Mr. Turner's."
"It was very like. I felt the mal de mer coming on."
"You don't have to do everything Papa did, Tom."
"God forbid, but if men of wealth don't use their wealth to some purpose, what good is it?"
"Patronise the sciences, then."
"You can't want another telescope!"
Elizabeth acknowledged the hit. She was amused and rather touched by Tom's confession. She had grown up in a milieu of wealth and took its benefits for granted most of the time. She knew Tom did not. Though she honoured his sense of duty, she couldn't help reflecting that her father had not made his position such a chore. Certainly he had enjoyed his political duties more than Tom did.
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